


These Days of Dust

by grumpyphoenix



Series: Various Bangs [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sam can be a bit of a dick, Set in 1970s, True love has never been a snap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-25 20:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: After author Chuck Shurley dies, his son Robert Shurley returns to his childhood home, hoping to find answers about who his father really was. He meets a stranger named Emmanuel, who has a story to tell him about his father, and the origin of the 1970s classic pulp novels,Supernatural. Hidden underneath the novels is a story about monsters, Angels, secrets, heroes, and true love.





	These Days of Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Based on _Unbelievably_ fabulous art by [RicketyJukeboxer](http://ricketyjukeboxer.tumblr.com/) You can see her own works [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricketyjukeboxer/works).  
>  I have been truly blessed to have her make even MORE art for my story, I am so excited.
> 
> Art Post: [IS HERE](http://ricketyjukeboxer.tumblr.com/post/175076366393/deancas-reverse-bang-here-is-my-final-entry-for) Go check it out, it's just beautiful.
> 
> This was patiently edited by [lotrspnfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotrspnfangirl/pseuds/lotrspnfangirl) who had a whole world of other stuff to do, and still whipped this into shape. 
> 
> Period Homophobia Note: Homophobia in the 70s was routinely vicious, deadly and horrible, and it is not like that in this story. I put a tiny drop in because I felt like it was appropriate and that it helped to tell the story, but it is not the focus of it. At some point I may make a prequel, because I think there's more to do, but this is not that time.

 

* * *

 

The house hunkers in on itself against the morning cold, aged and settling like an old man in a dressing gown. Long ago a set of strange occult symbols in white grease pencil had been written on every window, and they still exist there like a sign that says ‘Stay away, insanity lives here’. Behind the symbols, the old yellowing shades are drawn, and they press what were once white lacy curtains to the glass of the window itself. Decades of dust and grime cling stubbornly to both. 

Rob leans against the boring silver car behind him to look at the house, his fingers running through his brown hair like a tic. At only seven in the morning, with the scruff and the hair he’s already beginning to look like a crazy professor; a look he does not love, but his wife seems to adore. When he doesn’t make a move towards the front door, the passenger side door behind him opens, dislodging him from his perch. His wife emerges with her coffee, and together they rest against the vehicle, looking at the house. It looks back, unimpressed.

“So, that guy called again.” Her perfect pink nails tap against the take-out cup. “I checked him out, he seems legit. All he wants is to help you go through your father’s stuff, and I have to say, you need the help. He was a hoarder for a very long time, and there is no way that  _ I _ am stepping into that allergen factory.”

Rob reaches for the cup, but she pulls it away. “Not this time, coffee thief.”

He sighs, looking back up at the house. “Maybe you’re right. I haven’t been in this house for a decades. If he was as close to dad as he seems, he can tell me things about him.”

Relenting, she passes the cup over. “You’re never going to get the answer you want. I think getting perspective on who he was would be good for you. But remember that he was the way he was because he had an illness and he refused to treat it.” She fell silent for a moment, eyes trailing over the house once more. “Look, I have to go.  _ You _ can make your own hours, but I still have to do the nine to five. If you decide to meet with the guy when he comes later, that’s good, but don’t let the first time you step in the house be with a stranger.”

Well kissed and fussed over, Rob stands looking at it long after she’s left him. It’s still a beautiful house. Or, he can still see the beautiful victorian mansion underneath the layers of sadness that seem to wrap around it.

From behind him, a soft voice says, “The house is still so very lovely.”

Rob jumps and turns around in surprise. “Um, excuse me?”

The speaker behind him, a younger man with dark messy hair and a long tan trenchcoat, locks his intense blue eyes onto Rob’s own and smiles. Offering his hand, he says, “Robert Shurley, we spoke on the phone. I’m Emmanuel, Charles’ cousin.”

Rob takes the hand automatically, blinking in confusion. “You can’t possibly be. You’re too young. My father was in his seventies when he died and you look about forty years younger than that. You couldn’t have known him the way you indicated to my wife, anyhow.”

Emmanuel covers their clasped hands with his other and squeezes gently. “Things can’t always be what they seem, Robert. Charles, in particular, was never what he seemed. Have you been inside the place yet?”

Rob takes his hands back and rubs them against his pants, trying to get rid of the weird tingle in his skin. He peers around Emmanuel in confusion. “I didn’t hear a car... and you weren’t here a moment ago.”

Emmanuel smiles again and ignores the implied question, slinging his arm around Rob’s shoulder and walking. Rob finds himself halfway to the door before he really has a chance to react. At the steps leading up to the porch, his companion frowns, squinting up at the windows. He asks again, “Have you been inside yet?” 

“No, I just got here.” Rob takes the chance to shrug his arm off and get a little distance by going up onto the porch.

Emmanuel takes a moment to think, and then pats his trenchcoat down, hand emerging from a pocket with what has to be the oldest cell phone ever. “I have to take this.”

Rob cocks his head. “That phone isn’t ringing.”

Emmanuel flips it open and gives Rob a smile that seems practiced, ignoring the observation. “Your wife is right, you shouldn’t step foot in the place for the first time with a stranger.”

He heads back down the walk towards the street, and then turns, covering the mic on the phone. “The quality of the morning light in Fall here is just exquisite. I think the sunshine coming through clean windows would help to chase some of the dusty melancholy out of the place. I’ll be back in a while.”

Rob watches while the odd man goes back down the walkway, talking into a phone that is definitely out of power or not even on, the screen black and empty. While he turns back to the front door looming over him, it occurs to him fleetingly that there was no way Emmanuel could have known about that part of the conversation with his wife.

The door looks the same. It’s old and solid, banded with iron, and carved with a pattern of vines and flowers. His father claimed to have rescued it from some monastery, but over the years Rob had noticed a few strange symbols hidden in the elaborate carvings. When he pointed this out, his father looked closely at the door, claimed he saw nothing, and closed all conversation on the subject with a laugh. The next day, he gave Rob a notebook and told him to write a story about what he thought he saw. So, he did, and ‘the rest was history’ as the bio on the back of his latest book said. Rob had pushed all thought of the door to the dusty corners of his memory. Looking at the door now with adult eyes, he can see them plain as day, cleverly hidden in the curves of flowers and stems. The realization that he was right doesn’t give him any relief, it just makes his stomach feel bad.

Blowing out a hard breath, he fishes out the giant antique key to the house. He’s struck by a sense of nostalgia and deja vu, and putting the key in the lock, he feels twenty years younger, coming home from school and opening the door on his own.

The door creaks the way it always had, a loud whine into the quiet of the empty house making him remember arguments about getting it fixed. His father insisted that he ‘needed to know when people were coming in’. As he pushes the heavy thing open, Rob wonders if the backdoor is still nailed shut...

The swinging door pushes a mountain of old newspapers out of the way. Crouching next to the pile, he can see that the request to have the paper discontinued hadn’t been processed yet. There’s also papers from every surrounding county and township, even the little local ones that are free at the grocery store, composed of mostly ads and news about the school board.

The light from the open door illuminates the yellowing carpet and cobweb covered walls, the dust motes hanging lazily in the air. It smells like old paper and quiet decay. He shuts the door and flips the switch; about half the light bulbs in the hall fixture come on. Even the light seems worn through. Emmanuel was right... this place desperately needs sunshine and air.

The trip into the kitchen turns his stomach and prompts him to leave to make a trip to get cleaning supplies. Cleaning the moldy mess in the sink and on the counters gives him time to think about things he hadn’t really wanted to ponder before. His father had been found inside the house because of a phone call to the police, but who called it in? Was it Emmanuel? Filling up the final garbage bag and taking it to the curb, he thinks that it probably was. And if it was, how did he know?

The house smells subtly better when he comes in, and it gives him hope that opening windows will do even more good. He needs to clean the symbols off them first. They fill him with anxiety, remembering his father slipping into the delusion that they were being watched, that the outside was dangerous. Rob had been lucky he was allowed to go to school, which he’d loved because it let him get free for a few hours every day.

He goes through every room, pulling back curtains and nearly using up an entire bottle of cleaner, but it is completely worth it. Light streams through the sparkling windows and he opens a few of them to let the refreshing fall air in. He leaves the picture window in the living room, overlooking the front walk, for last. This window is the one with the largest set of weird symbols. Viciously, he squirts cleaner all over it, trying to erase the memories of the day he came home from school and these had appeared. The day his father stopped leaving the house.

He looks around at the porch, pleased with his work, realizing that from this angle he can see the door and that there is one tiny symbol left. He clears it away with a triumphant smile, and the very second the last of it’s wiped off, the doorbell rings.

Rob blinks. Emmanuel is suddenly standing on the front porch, donut box in one hand and a tray with two coffee cups in the other. Noticing Rob through the beautifully clean window, he smiles and waves. He slowly makes his way to the door and opens it, arm barring entrance to the house. Eyebrows raised, he looks flatly at Emmanuel. “You were not there a second ago.I know that because I was looking at the porch a second ago.”

Emmanuel cocks his head and squints. Rob looks at him. He looks back, expression unchanged. Against his better judgement, Rob sighs and waves him in. “I’m only letting you in because you have coffee.”

Emmanuel nods gravely. “Of course.” Then he steps over the threshold. There’s a moment where he pauses, as if he expects something to happen, but when nothing does, he turns his bright blue eyes on Rob and gives him a wide, relieved smile. Rob is rattled to realize that it’s the first genuine emotion to pass over his face since they’d met.

Emmanuel looks around him, nostalgia making the corner of his eyes crinkle. “Despite the dust and the effects of time, this is exactly the same.”

Rob takes one of the coffees and watches him soak the house in. Picking at the lid, he says, “I know my wife doesn’t think I’m going to get any answers from you that will satisfy me, and maybe she’s right, but... I think I’d like you to tell me anyway. I can’t say that I trust you, but I have the feeling that you might know more than I’m ever going to get by looking through his things. Did you,” Rob pauses and clears his throat, “Did you call the police when he died?”

Emmanuel seems taken aback, but nods, slowly. “Yes. We were on the phone when it happened. I hadn’t seen him in person in years.” He gestures at the french doors to the left of the foyer with his chin, hands full. “Let’s go in his office.”

His father’s office. Rob’s immediate, visceral response is that they  _ can’t  _ go there. Years of being angrily rebuked for even stepping foot in it, followed by hours of the silent treatment make him wary. Emmanuel is already across the hallway, opening the door and letting the stale air out, his coffee balanced precariously on the box of donuts.

Rob has never seen it with an adult’s eyes. What seemed mysterious and imposing now only seems mysterious and dusty. He takes a framed picture off the fading wallpaper and looks down at it. His young father is standing in the woods, scowling at the camera between two strong looking men, one of whom has long feathered hair and bellbottoms. They’re leaning against a big black chevy, the license plates stating:  _ K-A-Z. _

Emmanuel picks up a large hardcover book lying on top of the desk and opens it to the title page. He looks down at it for a long moment, a private smile quirking his lips. Rob can see that it’s been inscribed, but he can’t read the words.

“You want to know what happened to him,” Emmanuel says, closing the book and holding it up. It’s his father’s last book,  _ Supernatural _ , with its first edition cover. It’s done in three color format, bright oranges, browns, and blues depict two men, an Angel with beautiful art deco wings, a pentagram, and a car. He blinks and looks back at the picture in his hands.

Emmanuel nods. “It’s the same car. It’s the same men. To understand your father, we need to go back to this.” He taps the cover. “You might want to sit down, there’s a lot to this.” He pauses, staring at the cover thoughtfully before he begins, “It all started with Dean. Well, that’s untrue, it started with Mary. But years passed since Mary died, burned in their family home. The years in between were just the preliminary. No, it started when Dean had had enough of missing his brother.”

Rob frowns. “Dean? You’re talking about the character in my father’s book? C’mon, seriously?”

Emmanuel sits in his father’s chair and looks at him steadily. “Give me a chance.”

With a sigh, Rob sits on the overstuffed couch, moving stacks of newspapers, and gestures for him to continue.

“Like I said, it started with Dean. He was in over his head, but that wasn't new. He wanted his brother’s help specifically. He missed him.”

  
  


***

  
  


The crowd outside The Moonlight Cinemas movie theater mills around as people drain from the 8pm showing of  _ Carrie _ . Standing mostly above the crowd, a tall man with long feathered brown hair drapes an arm around his date, a woman with her own mane of blonde hair. They walk down the street and then cut through the darkened alley between the movie theater and the closed bookstore.

“I’m just saying, Sam, you seem tense.” She teases him with a smile. “Was it the blood? The fire?

He grimaces. “Jess, leave it, okay?”

She laughs, loud and clear like a bell, and he smiles despite himself. “Look, if you have to know, it was the --”

A leather clad arm drapes around Sam’s neck as a man comes up from behind him with no warning. “Was it the dirty pillows, Sammy?”

Sam grabs the arm and twists, slamming his attacker against the brick wall. The stranger slips out of his grasp, and then they’re fighting in the gloom, fast and dirty with Sam finally getting the upper hand and pressing the attacker into the filthy alley ground with a knee. He yanks back the man’s head with one hand and holds a knife to his neck with the other.

Jess shouts for him to watch out, and from behind Sam, the sound of a gun cocking is followed by the press of it against his head. A low voice grates out, “Don’t.”

Sam bares his teeth. Under him, the man says, “Woah! Sammy! Chill!”

Sam blinks. “Dean?!”

He holds both his hands up in surrender, carefully getting off his older brother and turning around to face the guy holding the gun. He’s shorter than both of them, but muscular, wearing a long shearling coat, too warm for a California winter. His blue eyes are locked furiously on Sam, training what is unmistakably Dean’s gun on him.

Dean gets up, a huge grin on his face. “Cas, man, it’s okay.”

The guy named Cas does not move, so Dean goes up to him, putting his hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Be cool, man.”

Slowly, Cas lowers the gun and passes it back to Dean, butt first. Dean slips it into a holster under his jacket and turns around with a huge smile as if nothing happened, cocking an eyebrow at the blonde. She’s pressed against the movie theater’s side door, eyes big and terrified. Sam slips his arm around her reassuringly.

“Jess, this is Dean. Dean, this is my girlfriend.” He looks between Cas and Dean, a sour look passing over his face. “Introduce me to your… friend?”

Instead, Dean draws himself up close to Sam. “We have to talk.” He eyes Jess. “Alone.”

Sam’s jaw clenches. “Is Dad dead? Or hurt? You can say whatever you want in front of Jess.”

Dean frowns, craning his neck back to look Sam full in the face. “I mean, I get why you’d ask that, but no. I haven’t heard from Dad since he kicked me out six years ago. Last thing Bobby said was that he was up in the woods somewhere, hunting a…” he flicks his eyes at Jess again, clears his throat, “bear. A big bear.”

Jess snorts. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam shakes his head. “Fine. Come to my place. We’ll get a pizza.” 

Dean’s claps Sam on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Sounds great, Sammy. Cas loves pizza, don’t you, Cas?”

Cas sighs. “No.”

Dean nods. “See? Lead the way, killer.”

Dean drapes his arm over Cas’ shoulder, provoking a frown from Sam which Dean pointedly ignores. The two of them pass by Sam and go out onto the street and load into a huge black car. Jess pulls Sam’s head down to whisper at him and he frowns, but before he can answer, Dean pops up out of the car, arms spread.

“C’mon, I know you don’t have a car. We’ll give you a ride.”

They all get in the car for the short ride to the apartment.

Sam and Jess live over a hole-in-the-wall pizza place, and the smells of freshly cooked sauce and pizza dough seem to permeate the walls. Bookshelves made of cement blocks and two-by-fours cover every available space, even making a small room of books around the bed that’s on the floor. Other than that, the only furniture is a run down couch and a low coffee table. Candles sit on every flat surface, well used, and placed over the remains of older candles, so that the colored wax forms pretty rainbows. Dean snags one of the spaces on the couch, shedding his leather coat behind him. Jess’ eyes catch on the shoulder holster, and he removes that also, locking gazes with her as he does. Every movement is deliberate, as if he suspects she might bolt. 

Rolling his eyes, Sam drops the pizza box and a six pack of beer on the table, sitting on the floor.

“Okay, Dean, what is so urgent that you have to ambush me instead of, I don’t know, sending a letter first or something? Also...” he points at Cas, “Jess says your gun just appeared in his hand. What is he?”

Dean pops the bottle cap off the top of a beer with his silver ring. “Well, I would have called, but you don’t have a phone, Sammy. Look, not to be a jerk here, but what I have to say is pretty heavy. Maybe she can take off for a while.”

Jess opens her mouth to yell, but Sam puts his hand on her, staring at Dean steadily until he throws up his hands. “Fine, but if she freaks out, it’s not on me. Look, after New York, you know I’ve been hunting.”

Sam’s expression shutters. “New York. You mean the riots. Yeah, I know.”

Dean’s jaw works. “Yes, Sam. Since  _ Stonewall _ , I’ve been hunting. I saw what kind of creatures could prey on people that no one cares about. Someone has to do something, and even at fifteen I knew enough to do it.”

 

_ (“Wait, wait, wait!” Rob cuts through Emmanuel’s story with his outburst. “Dean isn’t gay. The books are full of the women he’s been with. I mean, the character was like James Bond.” _

_ “Dean Winchester was a hedonist, Robert,” Emmanuel retorts. “Your father was trying to get a book published in the seventies.” _

_ Robert frowns. “I can see why that would be true, but I’m not sure I get this. Are you saying that Dad wanted Dean to be… I dunno. Bisexual or something? Is this how he wanted the story to go?” _

_ Emmanuel looks at him. “I’m saying that the books are a poor reflection of reality. Your father put in the things he thought he could get away with. This is the true story, if you want to hear it. Where was I? Ah, yes. Dean was upset.” _

_ “Now, wait a second…” Rob starts, but Emmanuel shushes him.) _

 

Cas walks behind the couch and puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder. It seems to steady him, letting him close his eyes and breathe until he calms down. Sam crosses his arms, his face closed off. No one speaks for a minute until Jess clears her throat, coming to sit on the couch next to Dean.

“You’re welcome here, Dean.  _ Both _ of you are welcome.” She scoops up a piece of pizza and offers it to Dean with a smile. Sam looks sulky, but doesn’t contradict her.

Dean accepts the food, his eyes wide and slightly wet. Cas squeezes his shoulder, and he nods, clearing his throat. “Um, right. Anyway. So, like, since then I’ve been making my own version of Dad’s journal.”

He looks sideways at Jess and then shrugs. “This lead up is for crap. Sam, angels are real.”

Sam’s expressions change too fast to really track, ending on skeptical and unamused. He doesn’t actually speak, but his raised eyebrow does most of that for him. Dean sighs, craning his head to look up at Cas. 

Cas nods and backs up, bowing his head as if in prayer, and closing his eyes. The room is bathed in a bright and holy light that emanates from him, black wings made of shadow illuminated against the bookshelves, blowing all the lightbulbs in the apartment in a shower of sparks. The room is plunged into darkness as Cas goes back to normal, bringing a moment of stunned silence broken only by the sounds of Jess sobbing. Cas snaps his fingers and the candles all light themselves.

The sudden light shows Sam on his feet, the knife in his hand forgotten as he stares at Castiel. Jess is on her knees, a cross in her hand, still quietly weeping.

Gently, he speaks, “My name is Castiel. I am an Angel of the Lord. Someone is murdering Angels, and we need your help, Sam Winchester.”

Sam says weakly, “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Ten minutes later, Sam still can’t quite get his head around it, but Jess has adapted. She and Castiel had retreated to the bed area to have a private conversation. When they came out, her eyes were bright with tears and she had a peaceful smile. Since then, she and Dean have been talking about the problem while Sam had a quiet breakdown on the couch. Pulling himself together, he declares the need for something stronger than beer, grabbing his wallet and leaving with an angry glare at his brother. Jess ignores it.

“You mean that angels have only been found murdered around here?” She’s been pulling books from the shelves, conscripting Dean to get the heaviest ones, kept for some reason on the topmost shelf.

Dean grunts as she piles books on top of the mother of all hardcovers he has cradled in his arms. “Yeah. No. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but how is this not freaking you out?”

Jess sits on the floor, spreading the books out, Dean across from her. “Yeah, well, I help Sam sometimes. He’s been hunting, too. Research is better in teams. I can’t say I’m wild about him putting himself in danger, but he’s still studying, so it’s copasetic. When he’s a lawyer, he’s going to help people in a new way. Don’t you look at me like that, Dean Winchester. I’m not naive, just hopeful.”

She pulls a well folded road map of California out of the biggest book and passes Dean a pencil. “What does ‘yeah and no’ mean? Mark where.”

Dean takes both and sets to work. “‘ _ Yeah and no _ ’ means that they’ve been happening across the country, but the latest batch have been here in a cluster. It’s never happened like this before.”

“The closeness of this to us, is that why you asked Sam for help?” Jess cranes her head to look at the map.

Dean reaches back into his coat, pulling a large leather journal wrapped in a rubber band free and opens it for reference as he marks spots on the map. “Not entirely. The last time I saw him was a few years ago at Bobby’s, and I missed him.” He pats her hand. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, the hunting game ain’t for him, not permanently. He’s the sort for settling down.”

Jess nods, but the expression on her face is thoughtful.

  
  


+++

  
  


Rob’s phone makes a sad chirping noise, startling them both. The sun is almost entirely set, bathing the room in golden hues. 

“Fuck,” he says, looking at it. “I have to go. Emmanuel, I recognize this story, but it sounds like two of my father’s books crammed together. The first one has Dean Winchester getting his brother from college, but it isn’t until the last book that this Angel shows up. Plus, he never finished the series.”

Emmanuel tilts his head. “You sound conflicted. Do you want me to continue, or do you have to go?”

Rob makes an urgent noise. “Let me make a phone call.”

He stands in the hallway talking while Emmanuel carefully looks around the office, opening the drawers in the desk and trailing his fingers over the spines of the old dusty books. He stops and looks at one with a symbol on the back spine.

“That’s an aquarian star,” Rob says behind him. “My father used to go on about its magical significance. I figured he was part of some kind of club; he used to get mail with that stamped on the back flap of the envelope.”

Emmanuel’s voice is soft. “Did he really.” He turns on one heel and looks at Rob expectantly. “Well?”

Rob sits, getting comfortable. “I owe like, a dozen favors now, but I’m free for days. Also, I ordered dinner. All that talk of pizza gave me a craving.” He paused and looked at the other man. “I hope you like pizza.”

Emmanuel sighs. “No.”

With a last look at the book, Emmanuel moves to sit back behind the desk. “You asked about the stories. He split the books up the way he did because of pride. He couldn’t help but put his own spin on the visions he had. Also, he didn’t know how to deal with anguish.”

Rob’s head jerks. “Visions? You mean the seizures?” He shook his head, remembering his father’s episodes. “He’d lock himself in here for days after one... I knew he was writing, but afterwards he said that it was nonsense and he’d deleted it. And what do you mean by anguish?” 

Emmanuel just smiles and pats the clunky relic of a monitor squatting on the desk. “I suspect that if you turned this on, you would find several more Supernatural books buried within it. As for the other thing, well... Dean and Sam had been working for well over a year on the Angel killings and getting nowhere fast. It didn’t help that they stopped for a time.

“While they did that, they fought other creatures, mostly working off Jess’ impeccable instincts and knack for research. They killed a werewolf, a nest of very odd vampires, ghosts; the list goes on for longer than I care to recite. The brothers had become comfortable together, as if they’d never been apart. Dean and Castiel stopped living in a hotel and got a room. Then out of the blue, Jess declared that she’d uncovered the pattern in the Angel killings that she’d been looking for, but would not reveal her thinking to either man. The proof, she said, would come at midnight at the Memorial Church on campus. Both of them went, trusting in her implicitly. After all, she’d never steered them wrong.”

  
  


***

  
  


Sam gives an angry look at the church and then looks down at his watch. “Dean, this is a dead end. It’s two minutes to midnight and there’s no show! Can we just go back so I can get at least some sleep tonight? Plus, the cops have driven by  _ twice _ , and I don’t want to go to jail.” 

Dean drums absently on the steering wheel. “She hasn’t been wrong yet. You do have a good point about jail though... They might mistake you for a chick in there.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I know, she’s a genius, whatever.” He sighs and pushes his hair back from his face. “Fine, let’s give it a half hour, and then we go back.”

Dean stretches. “Fine with me. I have a question though.”

Sam eyes him warily. “If it’s about my hair, I have no answer.”

Dean grins. “When are you gonna be on Charlie’s Angels? I watch every week.” 

Sam snorts. “Ha. Very ha.” He’s quiet, watching out into the night before saying, “I owe you an apology, I think. You and Castiel. I thought, when you first came, that you and he were… um. That you were, you know.”

Dean swallows hard. “About that.”

Sam’s head whips around and he stares at Dean. “You can’t fu… an  _ Angel? _ ! Dean, what the hell are you doing?”

Dean smiles bitterly. “Fuck? Was that the word you’re so afraid of using? I hate to burst your bubble there, chuckles, but I sure can. Actually, he’s usually the one doing the fucking.”

Sam makes a low groaning noise and covers his ears. “No, come on! Dean, why?”

Dean breathes in and out evenly, turning the key and making his shiny black Impala roar to life. “This is a waste of time. Let's get you back to Jess tonight, eh?”

Sam doesn’t argue, but his outraged look gradually turns apologetic and sheepish as they drive their way back. Sam opens his mouth to apologize as they turn the corner to his place, but the words dry up, chased into the void. The building is on fire.

Sam flies from the car, pelting towards the building with Dean following behind him. Castiel stumbles out of it, coughing, his clothes and face blackened with smoke. The fire is so loud, roaring like an animal, and he shouts over it. He can’t get through the fire, he can’t get to her.

Sam runs into the building, but Dean runs in after, hauls him back down the stairs, puts Sam’s shirt out. He keeps Sam safe. Sam shakes Castiel, begs him to save his girl, yells at him until the firemen come, until he’s so hoarse he can’t speak. Cas just takes it, shaking his head dumbly, eyes filled with tears and shame.

It isn’t until later, when Sam is collapsed into a chair in Dean’s room, smelling of soot and his arms wrapped in white bandages, that he learns that Castiel is a fallen angel; his Grace slowly dying for the love of a human. He couldn’t have saved Jess, thought he desperately wanted to. Sam’s hoarsely whispers a tired accusation that his perversion has ruined his brother, that he’s useless. That together, they’ve killed his Jess.

Castiel goes, wrapped in shame and remorse, and doesn’t return.

Dean nearly breaks over it, but they hold each other up, Sam and Dean Winchester. They fall back on the only thing they know. They hunt.

  
  


+++

  
  


Rob stares at Emmanuel, a slice of pizza held halfway to his mouth for the last two minutes. He puts it down absently. “She died. Jess died, and Castiel left Dean.”

Emmanuel licks his lips. “She did. He did. Not forever, but he didn’t feel as if his presence was helpful to Sam. He didn’t want to make Dean choose. It was probably a bad decision... I’m sure he regretted it.”

Rob looks at him. Emmanuel breaks the gaze to look down at the book cover, only to find that he’s gripping the book tightly, nearly ripping the dust jacket. Dropping the book, he stands and turns away, jamming his shaking hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat.

"So the first book,” Rob says, “all the stuff in it: the woman in white, the wendigo, the ghost of the kid in the lake... that happened after the Angel killing started. Which it doesn’t mention. Hell, it doesn’t even mention Jess! Or Castiel.” He puts the plate of pizza aside, looking sick, or sad, or both.

“Not that I believe that this happened,” he adds, unconvincingly.

“The brothers were on the road for about a year before they met Castiel again. The first book was published in that time. It didn’t take long before the two sequels were published either. He wrote them as one book initially, but it was cut down into a trilogy by the publisher.” Emmanuel looks out the window, then asks, “Should I continue?”

Rob nods absently. “Yes, but. How did they meet my father?”

“Ah,” he answers, turning back, “Well, that happened when they visited a used bookstore.”

  
  


***

  
  


Sam slams into a bookcase, sending a shower of literature over his head. Most of them are paperbacks, so he’s able to avoid a concussion. All the same, he spends some time shaking his head in a daze. Dean grapples with the pissed off spirit, his eyes bugging out as the ghost of Miss Eliza Withers, the black void of her eyes leaking malice, reaches her decrepit hand through his chest and squeezes. He arches upwards, screaming in pain, and then collapses with relief as she disappears in a shower of sparks. From underneath the pile, Sam triumphantly holds up an old book, now on fire. “Found it.” 

“No offense,” the scared teenaged cashier peeks over the counter, “but could you two leave?”

Dean lets out a short laugh, dropping his head against the floor. Sam, digging himself out of the pile of books, stops short and pulls out a paperback. The cover has a drawing of three men and a big black car. Other than the dramatic style, they are ringers for Sam, Dean, and Castiel. Emblazoned on the cover is the title: “ _ Supernatural: Lazarus Rising” _

Holding it up, he asks the kid, “What is this?”

In return for them leaving as fast as possible, the kid gives them the book. In fact, he gives them three.

They retreat to the hotel with them, some beer, and a whole host of new bruises.

Stretched out on the hotel room bed, reading the last of the three books, Dean’s face is murderous. “Whoever this Shurley guy is, he’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’.”

Sam, towel draped around his neck, hangs up the phone. “Bobby says he came out of nowhere, never written a word before. He’s really private, but the publisher was only too happy to help find him once he was told that a studio was interested in the rights for a movie. He’s in the mountains of New York, some tiny town. There’s a writer’s colony up there.”

Dean closes the book and looks at the front. “Even the cover is right... Baby too. So, what do you think, is he a witch?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe. We’ll find out in a few days, I guess.”

Dean nods absently, his fingers tracing the lines of the one person on the cover not in the room.

 

_ (“Writer’s colony?” Rob interrupts. “Do you mean the Abbey? It’s not really a writer’s colony. It was fashionable with artists and writers, but it was a mental facility! The kind of place you’d mostly check yourself into, but sometimes it wasn’t voluntary. Dad ended up there like, three times before I was born, and then once for a week just before he stopped leaving the house.” _

_ Emmanuel smiles a genuine smile. “I know, Robert. Your father was one of many to be touched by the Divine to be considered mad. The story interrupted by the death of Jess begins again here.” _

_ Rob blinks. “Touched by the Divine? Dad?” He scoffs, looking over at Emmanuel, unfazed by his disbelief. “Come on, really?” _

_ Emmanuel gets up and comes over, crouching in front of Rob to look him in the eye. “Your father kept many things from you, Robert, because he felt that you did not need any of it interfering with your childhood. I promise you that I am not mad and that everything in this story is true.” _

_ Rob sighs through his nose, and nods, gesturing for him to continue.) _

 

Dean peers over the steering wheel. “This isn’t a writer’s colony.” 

The building, made of fieldstone and huge beams of dark brown wood, sits in a clearing surrounded by a forest. Nurses in pristine white uniforms wheel patients in robes and soft pyjama-like outfits across the grass. A large garden basks in the sunlight, where more patients walk and sit. Gravel trails head off into the cool of the woods. It paints a picture of idyllic rest.

Sam narrows his eyes. “This guy lives in a funny farm?”

Dean gets out of the car. “Well, maybe we’ll be lucky and he’ll be a doctor or a nurse.”

A few minutes later, they stand in front of a door to a patient’s room. “I’m not even sure why I thought this would be easy,” Sam mutters as he knocks. Dean snorts, watching down the halls for the head nurse who did not take a liking to them at all.

“If this guy is a witch or something, we’ll have a hell of a time with him locked in here…” Sam trails off as the door opens, and then just swears violently.

Dean turns around in surprise and pauses, jaw hanging open at the sight of Castiel in the open door. “Cas, what..?”

Castiel shakes his head, stepping aside to allow them access to the room with a pointed look at the hall. Sam appears about to refuse, his face thunderous, but Dean pushes him through the doorway in front of him and closes the door.

The room is a mess. Balled up pieces of typing paper lie in a circle around a trash can. A desk in front of a large sunny window holds a typewriter and a stack of paper covered in typed words and handwritten notes, a rock settled in the center. The bed looks lived in. Sitting on the bed is a nebbish man with a scruffy beard and unkempt hair in boxer shorts, an undershirt, and a robe that has seen better days. He blinks anxiously between Sam and Dean.

“Dean, Sam, this is Charles Shurley. He likes to be called Chuck. He’s a prophet of the Lord.” Castiel says, his affect flat enough to draw a startled laugh out of Dean.

Chuck shakes his head, standing up and pulling the robe around him a little. “No. No, no, no. I’m not a prophet. I just found the thing!”

Castiel’s forehead furrows. “And you interpreted it. I may have lost much of my Grace, but I do know what that means. Also, your name is burned into the memory of every Angel. Charles Shurley, Prophet of The Lord.”

Sam opens his mouth, but Chuck interrupts, “I just picked it up. I ca-can’t help it if you can’t read it. My dr-dreams are ju-ju-just dreams. I write them down like, like Dr. Benton told me to. You really need help.” He looks up at Sam pleadingly. “He needs help.”

Sam again tries to reply, but Castiel rolls his eyes, poking a finger in the middle of Chuck’s chest making him sit down hard on the bed again. “You are a Prophet of the Lord, and you have information that the Winchesters need to help solve these murders.”

“The Winchesters aren’t  _ real, Castiel!”  _ Chuck raises his voice, but it wobbles a little, and he winces.

“Both of you  _ shut up!” _ Sam growls. “Castiel, what in the hell is going on?”

Behind Sam, Dean holds up a bundle of the pages that were on the desk. “This stuff seems to be about the fire that killed Jess.”

Sam stiffens and Chuck blinks a few times. “You’re here about my book? Tell my editor I know I’m late, but I promise I’m almost done. I just have to fix the story first.”

“No, Charles,” Castiel says gently, “this is Sam and Dean Winchester. They were there when Jess died.”

Chuck throws up his hands in frustration, and Sam angrily goes to grab him. Castiel moves gracefully to get in the way, unmoved by the murderous look in Sam’s eyes. Dean comes over and gently seperates them with a hand on each one’s chest.

“Hold your horses Sam. Cas, sit down. Can we hear the story from the beginning, maybe?” He looks at Chuck. “Not the novel, but whatever  _ this,”  _ he gestures to the room, “is?”

Chuck looks at him warily, but nods. “Okay. Fine. This is the Vi-Vista Retreat. I come here after I have… um… episodes.”

Sam mutters something and Chuck bristles. “It is  _ n-not _ a loony bin!”

Dean whacks Sam on the arm. “Sorry. Okay, it’s not a loony bin. So why are we talking about it?”

Nervously, Chuck gets up, edging to the other side of the room away from the three angry men. “Dr. Benton works here, he to-told me to come. I just got an inheritance from my Aunt Naomi’s death, and he said - he said I needed care. So, I came. You know that this place used to be an Abbey until the church moved the nuns?”

Dean makes a low growling noise and Chuck holds up his hands. “It’s relevant, I swear. Look, I go walking. I like the woods, and there’s this… shrine. It has a beautiful statue of an Angel, and I like to sit there and think. So one day I…”

He pauses as if reluctant to go on, but one look at the brothers and he takes a step back, colliding with the closet door and flinching. “I… I… heard a voice. Te-telling me to dig. So I dug. And I found… a… a thing. Then the dreams started again, except in technicolor, and I had to write them down to m-make them stop.”

Dean whirls on Cas, his patience at an end. “A thing?”

Castiel avoids his eyes. “Yes, Dean. A tablet written by God. A tablet about Angels. Charles can read it.”

Sam grinds his teeth. “What does this have to do with Jess?”

Chuck says slowly, “Well, if this was real, I’d say that I’m not the only one who can read it. Someone stole it from my room. That’s what I mean. If I’m supposed to be some kind of prophet because I can read it, I’m not the only one.”

Castiel says, “They took your notes, Charles. You had detailed notes explaining the tablet. I don’t understand why you cannot accept the truth! I showed you who I was.”

Chuck rubs his forehead. “Chuck. Please stop calling me Charles. I was drunk, I was hallucinating. I should be drunk now...”

Sam crosses the room without warning and punches Chuck, who falls against the closet and then slides down it, out like a light. Dean reacts instantly, putting himself between the Angel and his brother as Cas goes for his throat with a growl. He stays there until the two of them stop trying to kill each other, weathering the angry pushing as best as he can.

“Cas,” Dean says through gritted teeth, “tell us everything now, or I think your writer is not going to make it to his next birthday. And  _ Sam _ ,  _ knock it off.” _

They stop, Sam turning away to slam his hands against the opposite wall, trying to get himself under control. Cas glowers at him until he’s sure that Chuck is safe, and then he carefully picks the writer up in a bridal carry and brings him to the bed, edging around Sam. Sam, aside from seeming surprised by Castiel’s strength, does not react. Cas pulls the covers over Chuck gently and then turns to Dean. Still unable to look Dean in the eyes, he speaks to the floor.

“There was a tablet here, obviously protected and hidden by the nuns. It was one of many that the Lord created. They were meant for a prophet to read, they describe secrets. This one is about Angels.”

Dean opens his mouth, and Cas shakes his head.

“No, I don’t know why it was here or who took it. You and I searched for over a year for the killer, but obviously he’d been planning it for a long time prior to that, if he took Charles’ notes. Charles has been in and out of this place for years. His visions started ages ago, but only got more intense just before the Angel killings.”

“He likes to be called Chuck,” Dean says absently, looking over at Sam, whose anger is simmering quietly now, thinking hard.

Cas smiles, daring a look at Dean’s face. “Yes, Chuck. My apologies. I have trouble calling him that. It seems... undignified.”

Dean laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, he doesn’t seem the dignified type.”

Castiel finally meets his eyes and they lock gazes, staring wordlessly until Sam clears his throat uncomfortably, sitting in Chuck’s chair. He kicks his brother in the shin for emphasis and then rifles through the desk. With a whistle, he hauls out three thick piles of paper bound together with rubber bands.

“So he’s been writing about us for years, it looks like, without a break. Why is he getting visions of us? And how did you twig onto it?”

Cas says, “Other Angels found him first and I rescued him. When my brothers want something, they are not… gentle. In their desperation, his status as a prophet has not given him any special treatment. I would think after what they put him through, that they’d realize he knows nothing. I think he still thinks that everything was a bad dream. After that, I branded warding sigils on his bones so Angels can’t find him, including me. My brothers still think he knows who is murdering us and why. He just doesn’t.”

He touches Chuck’s forehead. “He’s a good man, but this scares him. Sam, he saw Jess’ death because she uncovered a pattern, and the killer knew it. He set the fire so that you would stop looking. Without clues, and in your grief, I think he expected you to self destruct.”

Sam looks at Chuck intently. “Well, I didn’t. When he wakes up, we’ll work on it together. What does he need to get him going?”

  
  


+++

  
  


“Booze,” Rob says bitterly. He has his father’s favorite brand out and has been drinking for a half hour now, steadily lowering the whiskey in the bottle as Emmanuel talks. “His go-to was always booze. When writing was hard, when  _ life _ was hard, when people tried to get him to leave the house or be a parent... it was always booze.” Rob snorted, looking at the dark liquid and swirling it a little before lifting the bottle and taking one more swig. “I bet Sam and Dean got him drunk as hell.” 

Emmanuel watches Rob drink. “It’s late and we’ve talked the day away. Perhaps I should leave you with your thoughts for the rest of the night, Robert.”

Rob just waves at him sarcastically. “Fine, go. Whatever. The Winchesters are real, Angels are real. My father was a prophet. You’re one hell of a storyteller, Manny. Just... Go.”

Emmanuel watches him in silence before pushing up from his chair and starting out of the room. In the doorway, he pauses. “By my estimation, I have one more day here. If you wish to hear more, I’ll be here in the morning. Robert, your father had his problems and courage was something he needed to reach for. I do know, however, that he loved you, and he tried to keep you from all of the things in his past that could harm you. Perhaps that was a failing, but it was well intentioned.”

Robert hunches in on himself, but doesn’t answer. It isn’t until the door closes quietly that the tears come for the man he never knew.

* * *

 

The sounds of a muscular car engine permeate his dreams, and the smell of coffee draws Rob the rest of the way out of his sleep. Emmanuel has moved a stack of papers from the coffee table and put actual coffee on it, sitting next to Rob’s slumped form. Rob feels as if he could appreciate it more if his head wasn’t splintering in half. He groans something incoherent, covering his face with both hands. The call of nature comes violently and suddenly, causing Rob to bolt, stiff muscles complaining, from the couch to the bathroom. 

On his way back, Rob steps out onto the porch to breathe in the cold Fall morning air. He stops mid stretch to stare out at the road in front of the house. Parked next to his walkway, as if it materialized out of the picture in the study, is a big black Chevy Impala. It’s old, probably a ‘67, in perfect condition, shiny and beautiful. He walks as if in a trance down the stairs to the car, and holding his breath, he reaches to touch it. The hood is solid and still warm to the touch. The license plates state:  _ K-A-Z.  _ His head snaps up to look at the office window where Emmanuel is framed, looking down at the last book again, a wistful smile on his face.

When he comes back in, Emmanuel is pacing, waiting. Rob tries to smile at him, but he’s too shaken. “I’m so sorry for last night. I guess some of this story was too much for me. I mean….” he trails off, not entirely sure what he means.

“Tell me the rest?” he finally asks. “Even if I can’t really wrap my head around some of it, I hate having a story left unfinished.”

Emmanuel nods, gesturing for him to sit back down. “You weren’t entirely wrong. So, where were we… Yes, they got your father something to drink, and then he remembered that he still had a rubbing of the Angel Tablet stuck under his newest novel. So, he and Sam worked together to try to figure out why someone would kill Angels, Dean got Castiel out of Sam’s way.”

  
  


***

  
  


Castiel sits in the front seat while Dean drives. The interstate here winds its way through the mountains, and Dean takes the curves at speed, blasting a Zeppelin tape on the radio while the sun travels across the sky. They stop by the side of the road to watch the sunset over the trees, neither man speaking yet. Eventually Castiel turns to look at Dean, drinking the sight of him in like water. 

“Dean, I…” He pauses and fumbles for words.

Dean lets Castiel wallow in it for a little while before having mercy. “I won’t lie. I was… I’m not sure there’s a word for how I felt.”

“Betrayed?” Castiel supplies, eyes on the ground.

“Yeah, okay, betrayed.” Dean nods and clears his throat. “But also just pissed, man. Look, you know about my dad and my mom, and the stupid shit that went down when Dad found out about… me. I loved you, and you just  _ decided _ for me that I needed you to leave.” He hooks his finger under Cas’ chin and pushes it gently upwards so he can look into the sad blue eyes.

“I still love you,” he says softly. “I guess I should tell you to take a hike, but I don’t want to. What I want is to pretend that it didn’t happen, for you to kiss me, and then maybe fuck me. And then we can go save some Angels.”

Cas reaches for him, tears filling his eyes.

 

_ (“Woah!” Rob stops drinking his coffee, spilling some on himself in his haste to get his words out. “That seems, like, amazingly private. Can we… maaaybe skip past this part?”  _

_ Emmanuel quirks his lips. “As you wish.” _

_ Robert gives him the finger. “Ha. I get that reference, you know. C’mon, get with the Angel stuff. What did Sam and Dad find out?” _

_ Emmanuel rolls his eyes. “Well, as I said, he had rubbings of the Angel Tablet, and your father could translate it, but it took Sam’s singular intelligence and knack for looking at a problem from a different kind of angle to see what was happening.” ) _

 

“It’s a philosopher’s stone,” Sam says excitedly, waving a notebook’s worth of notes in Dean’s face. 

“Great! Good work Sam!” he replies. “What’s a philosopher’s stone?”

“The stone of the philosophers is a legendary alchemical substance capable of turning metal into gold. At the same time, it is called the ‘ _ elixir of life’ _ , meant to be used to achieve immortality,” Cas says. Sam beams at him before he can stop himself.

“It’s supposed to symbolize enlightenment, bliss, nirvana, heaven,” Sam continues excitedly. “I mean, people have been looking for this for centuries! I think whoever read the notes is trying to use the life force of Angels to make this happen.”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Dean says slowly. “He’s been killing Angels for a long time now. How many does he need?”

Chuck, drinking straight from a whiskey bottle, swallows and closes his eyes. “He’s probably experimenting. Maybe he can’t read that thing after all.”

Dean nods slowly, looking at the rubbings. “So, he gets something from your notes, and then tries this idea. He must have achieved some kind of success, or he would have stopped by now.”

Sam has gotten quiet, fidgeting with his hands. “Jess figured it out on her own, and all she had was a map and the notes in your journal. Every one of the killings near the end were around Stanford, so it has to be something about the place itself... And the first killing was here, so it has to be someone  _ from  _ here.” Sam sighed and shook his head. “Its been months, though... Maybe we’re too late, maybe he’s done.”

Chuck shudders. “He isn’t done. I had another dream yesterday, and it is a doozy. This time, though, I saw the place and I remember it, clear as a bell.”

  
  


+++

  
  


Rob stops Emmanuel. “Wait a minute. Is the killer Dr. Benton?” 

“Very good, Robert.” Emmanuel runs his hands through his hair. “Though I suspect your insight is from the intervening years, not because you figured it out.”

“Well, yeah. Dr. Benton is a character in one of his unpublished non  _ Supernatural _ books. He’s a nasty serial killer actually, and when Dad refused to change the text, his usual publisher wouldn’t print it. I read it in high school. I think it was the first time I saw him as a real writer... It was a really scary book, though I guess now I know that’s not really true.” He picks at the plastic top to his coffee cup anxiously.

“It is true, Robert. Charles worked through his anxiety over what happened next the only way he could. That story is pure imagination, and your admiration for his skills should stand.”

“Chuck,” whispers Robert.

“Indeed. To continue, after some thought and digging, Sam and  _ Chuck _ discovered that Dr. Benton had left the institution some time ago to pursue a professorship at Stanford University. With Sam’s help, Chuck recreated his notes on summoning an Angel, and things began to fall into place. While the original murders were experimentation, he believed that Benton had discovered a way to make it work. But, he would need to finish his work during a lunar eclipse.

“Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, there was a lunar eclipse coming up that September. Looking in Dean’s journal, they discovered the only place that seemed logical for the final ritual was the selfsame church that Jess had sent Sam and Dean to in the beginning.”

Rob holds up a hand, stopping him for a moment. “It was Chuck’s notes that led him to Jess in the first place, wasn’t it? “

Emmanuel closes his eyes. “Yes. That haunted him for a long time, Robert. After he knew for sure that he wasn’t insane, the thought that he might have stopped Benton if he’d only known was not easy to shake.

“He told them the final piece,” Emmanuel continued. “Contained in the papers that were taken was a vision of Sam and Dean fighting a shadowy figure inside a church as an Angel slowly dies on the floor. Dr. Benton knew they were coming, so they had a slim chance to take him by surprise. Instead, they decided to go with brute force.”

  
  


***

  
  


The night is perfect for this kind of caper; windy and cold with a certain kind of bite to the air that usually only comes with a Halloween midnight. The moon above the four men slowly turns a blood red as they stride towards the church, Sam carrying a green canvas army bag full of weaponry slung over his shoulder. Chuck follows last, nervously, and it’s his shout that alerts Dean. Turning, he can see Castiel blink in surprise and reach for him as he suddenly disappears. 

“Dr. Benton summoned him,” Chuck breathes, his eyes wide.

Dean breaks into a run, pulling his gun from the holster under his coat, his eyes full of fury and fear. He goes for a side door first and finds it locked, as is the next and also the front door. Through the front though, Dean can hear the sound of chanting, and oddly enough, the sound of an organ playing. He loses his mind, kicking at the door until the solid lock gives and the heavy door swings in.

With Sam on his heels, Dean runs through the entrance, only to falter for a moment as he comes through to the nave. The absolute breathtaking chancel is built like nothing else, all sweeping curves and vibrant stained glass, like a holy cave with an enormous skylit occulus, the bloody moon hanging ominously above. On the altar itself is Castiel, his eyes wide with fear, his body bound to it with runed chains. Doctor Benton stands in front of him inside a meticulously painted circle of sigils, chanting, face ecstatically turned up to the moon. An unseen someone plays the organ, filling the building with beautiful music.

Dean and Sam both say, “What?” at the same time.

 

( _ “Wait.” Rob stops him, wincing at Emmanuel’s glare. “Who is playing the organ?” _

_ Emmanuel says, “A disciple. We hadn’t counted on that, but he had many of them, and he shared the power he stole from the Angels with them. Every Angel he killed gave him the power of God’s grace, you see. It was killing them from the inside out, but they refused to believe that. In their mind, they were denied the powers of heaven and eternal life. They continued to hound Chuck for the rest of his life, looking for the tablet. Honestly, there are still several, and they’ve spawned more. It’s a proper cult at this point.” _

_ Rob smiles in relief. “I knew it was going to be okay.” _

_ Emmanuel tilts his head. “What makes you say that, Robert?” _

_ His smile falters. “Well, if they keep trying to get the tablet, that means that Sam and Dean get it back. Right? The brothers make it out okay.” _

_ Emmanuel takes a long, deep breath.) _

 

Chuck shakes his head. “Doctor Benton, oh no.” 

The doctor turns, glowing with light. The cerulean hue illuminates his eyes, escapes from his pores. From an Angel it would be holy, but from within him, it’s corrupted. The very sight of it feels wrong, as if the light itself were oily. He smiles and hefts a long dagger made of a strangely polished silver.

At the sight of it, Dean shakes himself out of it and runs down the nave, Sam close behind him.

Doctor Beton turns back to Castiel, ignoring them and continuing to chant. From the aisles on either side come two men ready to kill, their eyes and skin glowing with the same corrupted light. Dean makes it most of the way up to the Crossing before one of them catches up to him. He’s tackled before he can get into range to shoot the doctor, the gun knocked out of his hand. Sam meets his sooner, spoiling for a fight, a savage smile on his face. Dean kicks his assailant in the face, breaking his nose and freeing himself, but the man is persistent and angry. Before Dean’s astonished eyes, the wound resets and heals itself, bone crunching in reverse. He scrambles to his feet, backing away on the defensive.

With a deranged grin, Dean’s attacker lunges at him with another strange silver dagger. Dean grabs it and forces it backwards into his stomach, right up to the hilt. He screams, light flaring brightly inside his eyes before he collapses onto the floor, bleeding out onto the rich red carpet. A shout makes Dean whirl towards the altar.

Chuck is there, holding onto Dr. Benton’s knife hand, trying to keep him from stabbing Castiel. The doctor is much stronger than the slight author, and with slow inevitability is forcing the knife downwards towards Chuck’s neck. Dean stops and takes careful aim, one deep breath in, and then one out. The shot gets Dr. Benton right in the head, and he falls onto the circle, his blood spreading across it. Where the blood lands, each symbol flares once, settling to a dim glow. Sam runs up behind him, breathless and covered in gore.

“Hey,” Sam says in a huff, “the music stopped.” His eyes widen. “Uh oh, that glowing can’t be good.”

The brothers help Chuck up to his feet and three of them look at the circle. Hands shaking, Chuck brings out the new tablet notebook, and Sam looks over his shoulder. Dean looks around the area, but there are no clothes, no key to the chains. He sighs and pulls out some lockpicks.

“Don’t touch the sigils!” Chuck and Sam warn at the same time.

Dean nods, stepping carefully over the circle so he doesn’t touch them, examining the chains carefully.

“Hey, Angel,” Dean kisses Castiel’s forehead and works on the chains as fast as he can, trying to keep his voice level and calm. “So, how about after this we go see the Grand Canyon? I’ve never been on a vacation before, and I’ve always wanted to see it. Then we can go to New York and get married. I mean, I know it’s not legal, but I have friends there, and we can do our own thing. I’d like you to meet them.”

Cas watches him, eyes wide. He whispers, “The ritual wasn’t completed correctly. We have to hurry, something bad is going to happen.”

Sam comes up to Dean, stepping over the circle carefully. “I get to be best man. I know, shut up, we can talk about what an ass I’ve been later.” He lowers his voice, trying to keep Cas calm. ”Chuck and I figure that whatever life-extending thing he was trying is all wrong now, and the power is in the circle. So, get Cas and step over it carefully when you leave. We can fling salt or iron filings on it… maybe wash the blood away and de-power it from far away after.”

The lock clicks open and Dean beams at Cas. “See? Happy ending.”

Cas smiles at Dean. “I love y--”

The forgotten organ player, sneaking around to the back of the altar, lunges up suddenly with a knife towards Castiel. Castiel rolls away, off the altar and onto Dean, who gets knocked backwards towards the circle. Sam grabs at him, trying to stop him as he falls, and there is a tremendous flash of light as they both fall onto it.

When Chuck comes back to consciousness, Sam and Dean are gone. Castiel sits over the body of the organ player, looking at the spot where they disappeared. Quiet tears of grief rolling down his cheeks.

  
  


+++

  
  


“Wait, what?!” Rob nearly shouts it. “They’re dead? Why did you tell me this story? No wonder my father shut himself in, that’s… that’s heartbreaking.” 

Emmanuel gestures, placatingly. “Well, this is still the seventies, you realize. There were a few years, quite a few in fact, between then and his paranoid hermit stage. Your father and Castiel became quite good friends, and made more along the way, trying to figure out where the brothers were. They’d disappeared instead of leaving bodies, so your father hoped they hadn’t died.”

“What about the cult?” Rob says, sulkily.

Emmanuel sighs. “Yes, well. The idiotic cult that formed around the Angel Tablet did not die easily. He and Castiel searched for the tablet everywhere, as it turns out that they lost it almost immediately after Doctor Benton died. It wasn’t until you were about twelve that he’d found it again. He decided against leaving the house after that, because both the cult and the Angels were looking for it. The runes on the windows were designed to help hide the house from Angels and anyone magically looking for the Tablet. Locked in the house like that, though, he was able to study it quite thoroughly.” Emmanuel tilts his head, finds Rob’s eyes. “The last thing he sent to Castiel was his thought that Doctor Benton’s ritual might have worked if he’d done it right, but because it was mostly guessing combined with being improperly finished, the stolen Angel Grace inside him created a pocket in time. Chuck thought that was where the Winchesters went.”

“Then he died,” Rob says it flatly, watching him. Emmanuel shrugs.

Rob looks at him steadily, Emmanuel returning it without comment, waiting for him. Rob stands and makes his way to the desk, slipping the hardcover out from under Emmanuel’s unresisting hand. Opening it to the title cover, he reads the inscription.

Rob says, “There’s an apology here to the brothers. He’s written a spell in here to reverse everything, too. It looks easy to perform, and the ingredients seem easy, except for two. These are personal, but… but you knew that.”

Still staring at the writing, Rob pretends to be casual. “Castiel?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, eyes on him steadily.

“I’ll give my blood, if you give your Grace. Are you willing to give up being an… an A-Angel?” Rob’s voice quavers only a little. 

Castiel slips a long silver dagger out of his sleeve. “I would do it a thousand times over again, Robert.”

They clear the front room instead of Chuck’s office, lifting the throw rug and pushing all the furniture aside. Rob reads the instructions out loud, and they carefully follow each step. Chuck’s written it in meticulous detail, leaving nothing to chance. Left for last are the personal ingredients: blood and Grace.

Castiel carefully slices Rob’s hand, dripping a fairly alarming amount of blood into the bowl, and healing the wound with a gentle touch. They mix the blood with ink, and together they cover the floor in writing. It is meticulous work, but as the day is coming to a close, they finish.

“The time is now,” Rob says quietly.

"Before we do this,” Castiel says, “the big book with the aquarian star... It’s a box, and it’s holding the tablet.”

He produces a card and passes it over. There’s an aquarian star on one side, and on the other is just the word ‘ _ Charlie’  _ with a phone number. “That’s the card for a woman named Charlie. She and a lot of other women just like Jess make up an organization called ‘The Women of Letters’. She can hold the tablet safely for you, and I trust her. Don’t give up your life for it the way your father did. He was a good man, but he didn’t need to sacrifice everything for one mistake.”

He passes the knife and bowl to Rob, guiding the tip of the blade to the precise spot for him to cut. Taking in a steadying breath, Rob warily cuts into Castiel’s neck, releasing a faint, lovely blue light that flows into the bowl, skin healing behind it. Cas sits heavily on the floor as Rob brings the bowl close to the spell, Grace flowing over the edge and making every magical letter on the floor light. The words move, blending together to form one large, bright symbol that fades from sight.

Rob helps Castiel up. “Did it work?”

Castiel smiles, looking past Rob, eyes fixated on something outside the picture window. “I have to go. Thank you.”

Rob wraps his arms around the former Angel, murmuring, “No, thank you. You gave me the key to understanding my father. Go live your life, Cas. Be happy.”

Castiel runs. He runs out the front door and across the porch. He runs down the steps, then down the cracked path. Waiting for him, leaning against the big, black, shiny car stands Dean, green eyes sparkling in the setting sun. He opens his arms wide and Castiel runs into them.

Rob watches Castiel kiss the long lost love of his life from the great window in the study, hand pressed to the cool glass. It is, he thinks, the kiss to end all kisses, the kiss to begin a proper ‘happily ever after’.

 

FIN.


End file.
